


Trust

by Twig



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:23:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twig/pseuds/Twig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Raw, 02/25/2013. After the piledriver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yesdrizella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesdrizella/gifts).



> Context: Punk v. Cena for contendership against the Rock at Wrestlemania 29. During the course of their match, Punk hits a piledriver on Cena, a move that's been banned for some time.

John closes his eyes and smiles at the press of lips to the back of his neck. 

"I'm fine," he says, soft, reaching behind him to pat the side of Punk's neck. He gets no reply though, just the brush of warm breath, and it's answer enough. It's not so much worry, not even an apology. God forbid CM Punk ever apologizes for anything, a man who lives without regrets. No, it's care. The pat before a big spot, the squeeze after one; an affirmation of life. 

He keeps his eyes closed, but there's no staying silent, not when Punk presses his thumbs into his vertebrae like so. He groans, a quiet sound, audible even over the hum of the air conditioner. The sound turns guttural at the knead near his hairline, the base of his skull, those tender spots where he always holds tension. When he reaches back again, Punk catches his hand, carries it forward. Both his hands are caught now, a grip that moves to his wrists, pinning them both to his stomach. 

The words -- whatever he planned to say is lost now -- catch in his throat. There's only the press of Punk's chest to his back. They're both wearing tees -- he in Punk's best in the world, Punk in a Gold's Gym tee -- but the heat of Punk's body permeates. It's more tantalizing somehow, this cotton between them rather than bare skin upon bare skin, his hands caught by Punk, the softest caress of Punk's breathing along his neck. But he longs nonetheless for the satisfaction of Punk's mouth against his own.

He twists in the embrace and catches Punk's mouth in a kiss, smiling to know that he got Punk offguard. There's a childish pleasure in it, and he'd be shamed if Punk weren't just as much of a boy as he is. He easily wrangles a hand free and cups the side of Punk's face, kisses him soft at first, for the care, then hard, for this heat between them that he hopes will never dissipate. 

Punk never apologizes, but maybe there's a sorry in here, for impulse, for daring, for coloring outside the lines. Except that's exactly why John loves him. 

"I trust you," he whispers, words that don't need to be spoken, except they do, for the sake of being heard. Punk exhales, not quite a sigh, but the sag of his shoulders tell the tale. "I trust you," John says again, or tries to, before he's silenced, first by fingers, then by lips. He can live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Rumor has it that the spot was improvised, and it gives me eternal wigglepants to think that Punk called it on the fly (he seems to be the one who calls most of the matches he has with Cena) and Cena just went with it despite his history of neck problems because he trusts Punk that much.


End file.
